wastelands
by generally uninspired
Summary: he slides down, crouching against the wall, wincing, and that's when he notices what his boots have been kicking. skeletons. fantastic.-— on survival and the moral dilemmas of a half-dead tribute.


**wastelands.**

**for sydney. **

* * *

Wark isn't really paying much attention to what he's kicking aside as he staggers into a dead-end alley through the snow, leaning hard against the crumbling wall to catch his breath as he clutches his shoulder. Damn thing ripped the shoulder plate of his armor clean off. Wark's seen the mutts before, at a distance, one or at most two. Not up close and personal like this, that's for sure. Managed to drop the one, but with his shoulder torn up like this he doesn't trust himself to keep shooting straight.

He slides down, crouching against the wall, wincing, and that's when he notices what his boots have been kicking. Skeletons. Fantastic.

He gives an eyeroll at that thought.

Needs to stop the bleeding. Could use that sponsor's magic shit but he's running low, hasn't hit a real landmark in a while and at this point he's backtracked and zigzagged so much he has no idea how close he is to his hideout. He fumbles in one of his cargo pockets and fishes out a bandana.

Wark moves his arm gingerly, flinching again. It's not bad. Nope. Nothing deep. He's had worse. Tying it up oughta hold him for now, long as his luck holds— and it usually does. His t-shirt's bloody and ripped up pretty bad, and it doesn't take much to tear off what's left of the sleeve. He folds the fabric over the open lacerations and gets the bandana wrapped under his armpit to hold it in place, tying it off as best he can with his right hand and pulling it tight with his teeth.

Okay. Now to get the hell out of here.

He rests against the wall for another moment, listening for a growl or a scuffling of claws on the ruined asphalt. From what he can see, street's clear from here to where the ragged buildings end. Not far. Long as none of the other ones spot him, he can make it.

It's another sound altogether that stops him cold, has him holding his breath to hear it again. Wasn't two days ago he last heard that - the spit of gunfire. Somewhere behind him.

"Ah, hell," Wark mutters aloud, edging off the wall, shotgun in hand.

Crawling back into a nest of mutts is about the last thing he should be doing, but that— well, that might something worth following.

Hopefully he doesn't walk in on the career pack.

* * *

Something's different about this.

He's not sure just who that something is, but Pax can't imagine they're in one piece if they've even made it this far. This was supposed to be simple, the way he liked it: get up to the cornucopia and clear out the mutts. Wouldn't last, of course, they always came back, but it gave a temporary reprieve, at least.

It's only in the cornucopia that he ever has to worry about more than one mutt at a time. One, he can handle with a good few frags and his rifle, but more than that and he has to rely on more creative tactics.

It's what's kept him alive for the past eight days, though. He's not worried.

There has to be someone in the vicinity, though. It's the only reason they're already this active. Plan was to sneak in, lay mines and let those take the mutts out, but there's no way he can get them in place with a pair of them already rampaging.

Pax sighs and reaches for his rifle. Only one he's got, so he tries not to use it too often, but he doesn't want to risk anything. The damn things are ___fast_, and he curses under his breath as one of them nicks his arm with a claw. Doesn't go through the armor, but he won't get that lucky twice.

A blast of gunfire to the face, and Pax rolls backwards, snatching two grenades off his belt. He pulls the pins off with his teeth and throws them ___hard_, aiming just between the mutts' feet. The first blast is enough to stagger them, and the second gives him enough of a respite to land three more shots to the head, sending the first mutt down.

The second one's already coming for him, and Pax grits his teeth as its claws rake straight across his chest. ___That's_ going to sting later, but he doesn't have time to grab a stim with it going in for another strike. Instead, he darts forward, close enough to press his rifle against its jaw, and fires until it cries out and falls back.

He gives himself little more than a moment to rest. The noise will have attracted the others, and the plan he has is good and shot - no chance of sneaking up on the damn things now. He holsters his rifle and reaches for his knife, bending to slice off the claws on both of them, and shoves them into his pack without a second look. Careers won't be happy, but like hell he's sticking around for more. He can't go back now, of course.

Pax glances around as he rises, idly wondering if the poor son of a bitch who wandered into the cornucopia ran for it, and then turns back towards the entrance. It's not his problem.

* * *

To the guy's credit, Pax hadn't spotted him instantly. Just ___almost_ instantly.

Still too close to the cornucopia to do anything about it, though. The mutts stay near it most of the time, but he's seen them fan out past that. Probably looking for prey. He can only imagine how many poor sons of bitches have ended up dead just from getting within sight of the thing.

Pax hadn't expected the guy to follow him. Hell, he hadn't expected him to ___survive_, and that alone is nothing to shake a stick at. Can't be good, if he made a mistake that dumb, but not half bad, either.

Course, if he's following him in hopes of getting his hands on Pax's gun, he'll have a whole other thing coming for him.

Pax pauses by one of the pillars, takes a glance back. No sight of the guy, but he can still feel eyes on him. Probably still there. Cornucopia's off in the distance, but they're far enough away that if it gets ugly he'll have enough time to make a break for it.

He walks around the pillar and leans back against it, reaching for his pistol. Not as powerful as the rifle, but it'll get the job done if it comes to it. It's a few moments before he can hear the sound of footsteps, and he waits until they've gotten closer to speak.

"You can come out now," he calls.

* * *

Well, fuck.

Wark debates for a moment whether he should be drawing his weapon, but the guy doesn't sound aggressive, particularly— not that you can always tell. But considering ___he's_ the one who just got caught trailing, reaching for his shotgun isn't gonna be the best move.

He slides out from behind the concrete piling, raising both hands so they're visible. The guy's got a pistol drawn on him. "Take it easy, man, I didn't mean anything."

"Uh-huh."

* * *

Yeah, ___that's_ bullshit, but at least the guy doesn't look like he's about to jump him. Not immediately, anyway. Pax takes him in with a couple quick glances—bad eye, explains how the mutts fucked him over, wound on his arm is fresh— and keeps his pistol right where it is. He hasn't survived this long without a healthy dose of paranoia.

Guy's in one piece, though. Counts for something out here, when everything's trying to kill you.

He'll see where this ends up.

* * *

_Keep cool. _Wark makes himself a mental note, while offering the stranger an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. Say, if you ever feel like lowering your weapon and, y'know, not shooting me, I'd be much obliged. Maybe I can make it up to you." He raises an eyebrow. "I'm pretty good with bombs." Maybe a working relationship can be mutually beneficial. He's half-dead and doesn't really want to kill anyone. Survive, sure. But killing isnalmost out of the question.

Something's just caught his eye, something he really should've noticed before. The stranger's got armor. You don't see that much, except on careers. Which changes things.

Heavy weaponry, armor, and this guy sure doesn't carry himself like a career.

That makes him interesting.

* * *

It's a decent offer. He'd work with someone for lesser reasons.

And bombs could be useful. Wasn't in his training, at the career center, and his usual methods involved just using a damn gun to get through. Didn't always work, though, and he can't say he'd mind it. Or the company. The silence is hell, and he's used to being with people.

"How good are we talking?" Pax asks, keeping his eyebrow raised but letting the edge of mouth curl up with it.

* * *

"Oh," Wark says confidently, returning the stranger's smirk, "I'm ___good._ District Three. You want to send something sky high, I'm your guy."

He wonders for a moment if he might be overselling— it's a gamble, but the guy's softening. He can feel it. Kid's being cautious, but he likes the idea, Wark can tell. Just needs the right kind of nudge.

He extends an inviting hand. "Name's Wark, by the way."

* * *

Pax can't help but let out a huff of amusement at how easily this Wark character seems to trust him. Still, a skill like that can come in handy. This, at least, is promising.

"All right," Pax says, and finally holsters his pistol, flicking the safety on. He takes Wark's hand in a firm grip. "Pax. Or Asshole, I don't care."

He lets go, but Pax doesn't move away. He's just barely taller than Wark, but he uses all of it to his advantage, leaning in a little closer. "What I do care about is getting stabbed in the back. You fuck with me, and I'll put a bullet between your eyes." He steps aside, giving Wark some space, though his eyes don't leave him for a moment. "We clear?"

* * *

Warl feels a small rush of satisfaction watching that pistol slide away, but he keeps it off his face, returning a serious nod. "Crystal."

This guy definitely isn't somebody he wants to cross, he can tell that much. There's something about him, not just his height and build but the way he ___uses_ it, and the weight in his voice, that says that bit about a bullet between the eyes isn't an empty threat. He'll have to be quick.

"So," he ventures, adjusting his backpack on his good shoulder, "headed anywhere in particular?"

"No," responds Pax.

"Well, I've got a place. Base camp, I guess."

* * *

"Alright." A camp would be a relief, and his new "ally" looked like shit. "Lead the way."

Wark grins, heads into the wasted part of town. The ruins. In a short time they reach a building made entirely of steel and glass. Wark disappears inside. Pax lingers hesitantly on the fringe of the doorway. Wark is far away, just within earshot.

"You better not be fucking with me," Pax warns again.

"Do I look stupid? You'd have your gun out quicker than I could move. Come on, it's just around the hallway," replies the other.

Pax sighs, walks toward him.

And steps on a land mine.

* * *

The explosion isn't spectacular, but it's enough to send Pax flying into pieces.

That's one more down. Wark lingers in the mix of snowflakes, bloody body parts and broken glass, stares at it for a moment. Pity. Asshole kinda seemed like a nice guy. Wark, however, is almost entirely sure that he himself is infinitely nicer. And a better person. He was almost positive that Pax's impact on the universe would almost certainly been less positive than someone with the froodiness of Wark himself. He scrapes a bit of flesh off his jacket.

Of course, he has to leave in case anyone— anything— heard it.

He really wished he hadn't had to do that. It felt so barbaric. He'd probably go down in infamy for that particular move. But the games are the games, and any asshole with a gun is fair game so long as it's not Wark himself.

* * *

**fin. **

**two things. **

**one: games with nature and primitive weapons are deploringly unoriginal and trite as hell. **

**two: stories about backstabbing, asshole tributes killing each other are not. **


End file.
